


she got me in heaven

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-09 00:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11657550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Grant doesn't want to think right now. Luckily, there's a very pretty distraction at hand.





	she got me in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I did a five sentence meme over on tumblr (it goes: send me a sentence and I'll write the next five). This is.....significantly longer than five sentences. Oops?
> 
> For the anonymous prompt "You're not as attractive as you think you are."
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

_“You’re not as attractive as you think you are!”_

The hissed comment rouses Grant from his doze, but—drugged as he is—he doesn’t bother to open his eyes. He can feel pain hovering at the edges, waiting to bring agony to his broken ribs and various burns, and until it’s back, he doesn’t  _wanna_  be conscious.

If he’s conscious but not hurting, there’s time to think. And if he thinks…

“Is this the moment?” 

This voice comes from a lot closer; probably belongs to the same person as the hand that’s adjusting the bandage on his forehead. If not for the drugs, he’d have sensed the hand coming and broken the attached wrist before it got in range (which is why SHIELD doesn’t give its agents a choice over being drugged when injured); as it is, he doesn’t even know it’s there until the bandage is moving.

Soft, cool fingers brush his skin.

“Don’t ‘is this the moment’ me, you bitch, just because—”

“Just because we’re surrounded by injured,  _sleeping_  agents?” the woman above him interrupts. “Really, Rosen.”

“You’re not even a real  _doctor_!” Rosen….he doesn’t know what to call it. It’s like she’s shrieking at a whisper. Fucking annoying, whatever it’s called. “You’re just pretending! It’s awful, not impressive!”

“What’s awful is seeking me out to harass me in a room full of men and women who very nearly just gave their lives defending all of us—you included—from an alien invasion,” his (not a real?) doctor whispers sharply. Nice low pitch, though. She’s got a pretty voice—and he likes the accent, too. Makes him think of that op in London last year. “I’ll be happy to have this out with you once my shift is over, but until then, I’m going to have to insist you  _leave_. Don’t make me call security—I doubt they’re in any sort of forgiving mood, after everything.”

“Fine!” Rosen snaps—loud enough to make Grant’s head throb—and, he’s guessing, stomps away.

The doctor sighs in relief.

“And for the record,” she mutters (to herself? or is there someone else around?), “I am every bit as attractive as I think I am.”

Without the fight to distract him, all those things he’s been trying not to think about (the invasion, New York,  _John_ ) come rushing right back. It plays on a loop in his head: John getting hit,  _falling_ , fucking Monroe dragging Grant away from him, practically screaming in his ear, “He’s dead, man, he’s dead, I’m sorry—”

Grant opens his eyes.

His first thought is that his doctor was right: she’s  _very_  attractive. She’s not looking at him; she’s studying a tablet, lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration. Brushing up on her medical procedure, maybe, if she’s only pretending to be a doctor. Whatever she’s looking at, that kind of intense focus is damn hot on her.

“What was that about?” he asks. 

The way she squeaks with surprise, on the other hand, is just adorable.

“Sorry,” he says. His throat feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper, it’s so dry, but it’s worth the effort it takes to speak. She’s even cuter when she blushes.

“Oh, no,” she says, setting her tablet aside hurriedly. “That was completely unprofessional of us—I am _so_ sorry.”

There’s a little table off to the left with a pitcher of water placed temptingly out of reach; Grant stretches for it and smiles at her in thanks when she all but jumps to pour him a cup of it. Sitting up takes a few seconds, and his hand shakes as he accepts the cup, but otherwise the drinking goes pretty well.

The lukewarm water is like heaven on his throat, but thinking of heaven leads to—

“Not sure how much professionalism I can demand from someone who’s not a real doctor,” he says, yanking his thoughts back to the present.

She makes a little noise (a groan? A giggle?) and sinks back into her chair, burying her face in her hands. “That was not what it sounded like.”

“So you _didn’t_ sneak in here and impersonate a doctor to satisfy some kind of fetish?” he asks.

Her head snaps up. The blush is still cute, and her eyes going all huge like that only helps. “ _No_!”

“Damn,” he sighs. “And I was really looking forward to playing a role.”

…Fuck. That was the drugs talking. Not that he wasn’t _thinking_ it; it’s just a little blunter than he cares to be with a complete stranger. Usually he waits to get a read on a woman’s sense of humor before making that kind of crack.

Fortunately, his still unidentified not-real doctor is nice enough to ignore his comment.

“I’m a biochemist,” she explains. “I took a course on field medicine last year, which SHIELD felt was enough to qualify me to serve as a medic, considering the…circumstances. That’s all.”

Circumstances being that, rather than in a private room at a SHIELD trauma or med center, Grant’s currently in a tiny curtained-off area in what he’s pretty sure is a high school gym—and so are more than a hundred other agents.

Yeah, he’ll bet they’re running low on real doctors right now.

“Makes sense,” he says. “But why did she say you’re not attractive?”

Horrified’s a good look on her, too. “You heard that?”

Grant does his best to look apologetic as he nods. Kind of a struggle, since he can’t really feel his face.

“Right, well.” She looks around a little helplessly, like maybe if she wishes hard enough someone will suddenly start coding and give her an excuse to leave. Or maybe not—pretty, sweet biochemists who leave their nice, safe labs to play doctor to wounded agents in a crisis probably don’t wish harm on others for their own convenience. That’s more of a specialist thing. “Shouldn’t you be resting? I promise there will be no more interruptions; I’ll get security right on her if she comes back—”

“Uh-uh,” he interrupts. “No way. Explain.”

It’s probably mean of him to press the issue, especially after she _just_ let his little slip go, but what can he say? He really, really wants to know.

“It’s nothing, really,” she says.

He stares her down.

“Oh, fine.” She leans over him to adjust his blanket—not that it needs it. He clocks it as an evasive move, an excuse to avoid his eyes, but doesn’t call her on it. Far be it from Grant to complain when a beautiful woman fusses over him. “Agent Rosen’s boyfriend has developed a slight infatuation with me. She’s blaming me for it, I’m afraid.”

“Understandable,” he says, and smiles at the sharp look it gets him. “The infatuation, I mean.”

“Oh, that,” she says, smiling back. “Yes, it is. I’m very fanciable.”

Her matter-of-fact tone surprises a laugh out of him. Hell, she’s cute. He likes her.

The thought brings John to mind, that face he’d always get when he thought Grant was maybe getting _attached_ to a mark…but she’s not a mark, and if Grant’s getting attached, it’s John’s own damn fault for getting himself _killed_.

He doesn’t wanna think about John.

“I’m Grant, by the way,” he says. “Grant Ward.”

“Oh!” She sticks out a hand. “Jemma Simmons. Nice to meet you, Grant.”

“You too,” he says and, figuring he can blame it on the drugs if it strikes the wrong note, kisses her hand.

Her eyebrows go up, but she’s still smiling. “Do you greet every agent you meet that way, Agent Ward?”

“Only the fanciable ones,” he teases.

‘Fanciable’ sounds a lot dumber coming from him, but it makes her smile widen, so he’s willing to bear the indignity. She’s got a gorgeous smile.

It fades, though, when her discarded tablet suddenly chimes.

“I should get back to my rounds and let you sleep,” she says, reaching for it.

“No.” Grant catches her hand again before he can think better of it. (Damn drugs.) “Stay a while.”

“You should be sleeping,” she insists, gently tugging her hand away. “You’re injured—and if you want to get back to saving the world anytime soon, you need to give your body time to heal.”

His laugh comes out a little more bitter than he means it to. “I won’t be saving anyone anytime soon, no matter how much sleep I get. I’ll be lucky if they let me back in the field this year.”

“This year?” she echoes, obviously startled. She reaches for her tablet again and, as he doesn’t intercept her this time, picks it up and taps at it quickly. “I thought your ribs were the worst of it? Your medical leave—”

“Not medical,” he interrupts. “Bereavement.”

Jemma freezes.

“My SO,” he says. His throat’s gone tight and sore; he takes a few sips of his water and isn’t really surprised when it doesn’t help. “He—we were on the ground. Obviously.” Not like any agent _not_ on the ground would’ve ended up in a high school gym for treatment. “He didn’t make it.”

“Oh, Grant,” she says, laying a soft hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well.” He clears his throat. “Anyway. Like I said, they won’t be sending me into the field anytime soon, whether I’m healed or not. And I’m not really in the mood for sleep, not when…”

Not when John’s death is waiting in the wings, ready and willing to turn every dream into a nightmare.

Jemma’s eyes are wide and sad, watching him with so much sympathy he could drown in it. It’s funny; he’d expect it to piss him off. Instead, it…he doesn’t know. All he knows is that she’s distracting, and he really, really wants a distraction right now.

“So,” he says. “I know you’ve got rounds, but if you could spare a little longer…I could really use the company.”

“Oh,” she says, and then, “Of course.” She returns her tablet to the side table and sits back down, folding her hands in her lap pointedly, as if to emphasize how much she’s _not_ leaving. “I think my rounds can wait a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” he says, and stretches to take her hand again. Jemma not only meets him halfway, she rolls her chair a little closer to make it easier for him to keep hold of her. “Really.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she assures him, blushing a little when he squeezes her hand.

Maybe he plays up the relief in his smile a little bit, but so what?

Using his grief as leverage to keep a beautiful woman’s attention…he’s pretty sure John would be proud.


End file.
